The Honest Earth
by Stuart Duncan
Summary: In a post-courier Mojave, an immigrant from Redding attempts to survive in the Wasteland.    Rated M for Violence, Language, Sexuality
1. Prologue

Prologue:

It had been two years since the Courier had led Caesar's Legion to victory at the Hoover Dam, but little had changed. As soon as they had possession of the dam they lost it to dwindling resources and the largest tribal revolt in Mojave history. Once the first few tribes had been forced into slavery, it was no time at all until almost every gang of raiders had joined together. What became of this union was the first confederation of tribal leaders in the history of the post-war world.

The Tribal Confederation of the Mojave was able to push Caesar back to the Colorado River where the Legion holed itself up inside the Fort awaiting reinforcements. The confederation managed to hold New Vegas for a brief time before the NCR had retaken Hoover and pushed the tribes back into the desert. Even under Republic control, constant conflicts with the Confederation and the assassination of numerous NCR officers had led to a New Vegas that was just as unstable as in the years before. Years of scheming and fighting had reproduced almost the same stalemate that had plagued Vegas for years.

There were small changes. After the assassination of both President Kimball and Mr. House the Courier vanished back into the wastes. Some say he himself died in the battle at the Hoover Dam, but local legends tell a different story. Some say he traveled north and finally settled in the forests of the Yukon. Others said that he had traveled east to join the Legate in his conquests. Wherever the courier traveled after the Legion's victory at Hoover, he did so in secret. In the end everything that he had worked for, all of his bloodshed, was swallowed by the desert sands.

All of this had little effect on our Hero. Like most lives carried out in the Mojave, his story is one of survival. This story is about Dig, the man from Redding.


	2. Chapter 1

Dig pushed his glass towards the back of the bar. The whiskey was already playing tricks on his mind, and he was sweating. Small streams starting at his brow were already washing away layers of sand that covered the wrinkles beginning to show on his face. Like cracks in leather, he was aging before the bartender's wary stare. It was hotter than hell in the saloon, and it was crowded with republic soldiers. No one, not even the most battle hardened Rangers, wanted to be outside in the desert heat. It didn't matter how thick the air inside the barracks got, it still beat the Mojave sun.

"Time to go to work," he muttered under is breath. No one heard him, but he didn't speak to be heard. Years alone in the wasteland had taught him the value of talking to himself. A long time ago, before he traveled alone, a man had told him these personal conversations could help keep a man from going _too_ crazy. Dig wasn't sure if the man's advice worked, but he acknowledged the comfort he had found in hearing his own voice. He hid his face behind a thick beard and a pair of thick-rimmed sunglasses an old sweetheart had left him. Memories of Valerie might as well have been from another life. But he thought of her as he eased back from the bar, slung his duffel bag over his neck, and stepped out into the heat.

The outpost was bustling with caravaneers. Since raiders had sacked a few caravans south of this station no one was leaving anytime soon. After all, the New California Republic had a reputation to uphold. Brahmin and their respective traders lined the road in and out of the outpost as a handful of unlucky troopers patrolled the stretch of hard-packed dirt between the barracks and the south gate. Dig crouched behind an old pack-Brahmin and pulled the brim of his hat down, waiting for his moment. Between the dust in his eyes and the smell of the livestock clogging his nostrils, his mind was cloudy. The past two hours of sucking down shots of watered-down bourbon didn't help either.

Finally he saw his opening. Across the path the NCR sentry entered the barracks, and Dig made his move towards Sgt. Kilborne. Keeping his eyes down and setting a determined pace, he resisted the urge to check his surroundings.

"Go with you gut," he whispered to no one. "Go with your gut." His hands were lodged soundly in the pockets of his tan fatigues. An NCR flag was proudly emblazoned across the front of his army jacket, but the name on the tag wasn't his. Three steps in front of the officer Dig's fingers found what they had been desperately digging for in those pockets. In one fluid motion the combat knife was in his hand, and then firmly planted in Kilborne's throat. He felt blood on his palm, sticky and hot, as he clamped his hand over the sergeant's mouth. Kilborne didn't scream, but his eyes never left Dig's.

Kilborne's knees buckled as the man's gaze gradually clouded over. Dropping the man's body, Dig kept walking. Not too fast, but with purpose. Only now did he let himself check his surroundings. His gut was never wrong. 3 years of this and he'd never been caught. The assassination had come and gone and no one had spotted his deed.

Passing under the large steel statue that guarded the outpost's entrance, Dig allowed himself to quicken his pace. One hundred feet behind him lay the body of an NCR officer, the knife's blade still lodged deep in the man's windpipe. But Dig's mind wasn't on the murder he had committed, or the look in Kilborne's eyes as realized Dig was no member of the Republic. Dig's mind was elsewhere. He was busy envisioning the meal this man's life would buy him, and the pure, cool water he would wash it down with. He felt his mouth begin to water and forced his mind back onto the task at hand. "After all," Dig spoke aloud, "it's a long walk back to Cottonwood Cove."


End file.
